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Poetry Thursday: Hustle

It takes over
when you want something,
like a sleeper Cylon switch
tripped on some remote mother ship:

one day
you’re sitting on the couch
eating Fritos
watching the Wheel;
the next
you’re an unstoppable force
in a series of headlong collisions
with a never-ending stream
of immovable objects.

God help you.

You can
of course
avoid this
if you like.

The racing of your heart
and the ringing in your ears
and the rumble in your belly–
they all go away
eventually
or at least
you can pretend they do.

But a word of advice
if you would not awaken:

Stay away from New York in the spring
and Paris in the fall
and Rome, anytime.

Stay away from the suburbs of Dallas
and the swamps off the Gulf
and the hills of Kentucky
and anywhere else
there are people
or buildings
or neither
or both.

Quit going to plays
and museums
and ballparks
and beaches,
especially the ones next to oceans,
and absolutely stop watching anything played
at a professional
or amateur level.

You should also probably forget
about thinking and writing,
and dreaming (day or night),
and give up yoga and running
and fighting and screwing
and even being celibate for any length of time.

This one particular French cookie
I read about?
Kind of spongy? Shaped like a shell?
Avoid it like the plague.

Speaking of reading,
give that up entirely,
along with talking
or listening
or even eating anything
besides maybe Fritos
and something to dip them in
while you watch the Wheel.

Oh. And if you ever decide
to play hooky
from your hateful day job,
and skip out on a client dinner
for a falafel sandwich on your own,
do yourself a favor:
stay out of this one particular
cinema in Westwood.

I’m pretty sure
that firetrap
they call “Theater 2”
is a Cylon base
riddled with
hidden switches.
Because 25 years later,
I still cannot remember the movie I saw
but I know that I haven’t slept
a wink since.